


/shaky hands

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Trainspotting (Movies)
Genre: Blood Puke, Dead Baby Mentions, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Hallucinations, Heroin, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Whumptober 2019 Day 1: Shaky HandsOr, in which I once again delve into my drug withdrawal fetish.





	/shaky hands

**Author's Note:**

> taking a break from my fic requests to do Whumptober. (also doing Goretober on my guro blog, saccharineseptictank.)

Three days. No hit.

Mark's stomach clenched around emptiness. He'd tried to keep food down, oh, countless times, but it wouldn't stay. He was starving, for a hit first and for food second. His bed was soaked through with sweat, and the sheets clung to his skin. Felt like he'd pissed himself. They clung, every time he moved a limb, which trembled like the dickens. An earthquake was happening within the confines of his weak, rickety bones.

Stomach curdled, he felt like he was going to lose his mind. The car-patterned wallpaper, the striped blankets that stuck to his flesh, they all began to meld into one solitary thing and it hurt his spinning head. 

_Ma. Ah really think Ah should go t' the clinic._

He'd ought to say that. He'd ought to burst out of his room, guns-a-blazing and say, _Ma, take me back er Ah'll fuck'n lose me mind! _But his shaking, sweating hands were flicking at the brassy doorknob and it was locked tight from the outside. _Since when'd this bloody room lock from the o'er side? Fuck me. _He was trapped. He'd been trapped. His parents trapped him.

Fists pounded on the door.

"Ma! Ah can't," he whined and pressed his forehead against the wood, "cannae fuckin' take it no more."

Ignored.

The ceiling was dripping blood all over the carpet. Mark knew this was some _IT_ bullshit and nobody could see it but him, because he was losing his goddamn mind. It looked real, though. Felt real. Even if he told himself it wasn't, the constant 'plat' of it hitting the wet carpeting was far too real. 

Dawn had been up there. Baby Dawn. She always had lovely eyes. She had her father's eyes - Sick Boy's. They glimmered grey and blue. If she'd lived to adulthood, she'd probably have been a heartthrob just like her dad, not that it was any of Mark's business. They had life in them, a life which now clung tight to his ceiling and dripped, and dripped, and dripped. "Ma, please lemme out, Ah'm goon'a lose it, if Ah stay'ere Ah'll lose it. Please. God, please."

No response.

The puke bucket had been cleaned recently, all of the congealed water-bile wiped out and the uneaten porridge scraped from its plastic surface. Mark thanked the stars for that one as soon as he stuck his head in it. His palms trembled on the edge of the bucket and it trembled with him, its blue inside staring deep into his soul. His cold, blackened soul, sucked dry from years and years of heroin addiction. Dropping out of college because of a heroin addiction. Turning away friends and family because of a heroin addiction. He was not proud, but he was there, and this was his life. He needed a hit. Even methadone would do.

It hit the inside of the bucket with a loud splatter. All water, and a little bit of blood. (Hallucinatory blood, he'd later realize.) The flecks of red hung suspended in clear, bubbly liquid. He gripped his blanket, which hung off the edge of his mattress, and finally registered the shake in his hands. They'd been shaking for so long that he almost forgot. For _days_ they'd been shaking, they shook and shook and never stopped.

Was he weeping again, or what? Were those tears? Leaving a glimmering sheen over his face, sweat and salt mixed together. All the water shed from his body. He felt like he was just gushing fluid, probably looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon in his soaked pyjamas. 

_Plat. Plat._

He threw up in the bucket again. This one looked like it had a chunk of something in it, but what it was he couldn't tell. It was surrounded in red. His hands shook.

His mother probably wasn't even home, she was probably out playing Bingo or some shit with her old friends. She was probably waiting for her son to waste away and die in his sallow, track-marked skin, and then throw a funeral and finally be done with him. They'd have one son left -- Billy. The _good_ son. Mark hated him.

"Stop shakin'." 

_Yer speakin' t' yer hands nae, Mark, yer fuckin' gone. _Maybe so. He flattened his palm on his desk and punched into the back of his left hand. It hurt a lot and didn't do anything.

Soon enough, he'd have to sleep.


End file.
